


gives me toothaches just from kissing me

by aceofdiamonds



Series: the one where harry and george get together and kiss a lot [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 09:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13900977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: George leans across Ginny and says, “C’mere, Harry, I’ve got something in the back to show you,” which is so transparent Fred rolls his eyes at them but Harry grins and follows George up a series of narrow steps and behind a curtain, the space small enough to make them stand very close together, both grinning with a nervous excitement that has Harry feeling giddy.the summer before harry's sixth year





	gives me toothaches just from kissing me

**Author's Note:**

> the first part got so much more love than i ever expected so i hope this lives up to expectations. can i ask you to suspend your belief regarding the amount of free time george has considering the shop has just opened. like the first part it's probably overly fluffy but that seems to be all i write anymore so let's embrace it. 
> 
> even the title is nauseatingly sweet. it's from hozier! work song!

 

 

Harry has never understood time. The last five years at Hogwarts have flown past in a blink of an eye, somehow he only has two left, but simultaneously, the days and weeks have dragged as rumour after rumour scandal after scandal has shot after him.     
  
And now, as always, the summer is stuttering past, hour by hour, nightmare by nightmare. He hasn’t mentioned anything about Sirius to the Dursleys, opting instead to alternate between staying in his room, sleeping and sleeping, or walking through the neighbourhood, taking endless loops of the boring boring suburbia. 

But there’s an end in sight, an ending that is approaching much sooner than any other year, and Harry wonders if that has something to do with Sirius, if Dumbledore has a twisted sense of guilt, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, not if it gets him out of this house after a mere two weeks.

So he’s packing. Or, attempting to. Without magic it consists of a lot of sitting around, groaning, throwing a pile of clothes on top of another pile of clothes, and wishing desperately for Dobby, ignoring that Hermione whisper in the back of his mind that although wizarding society might have him believe it, house elves don’t exist for their convenience. 

And, amidst the groaning and the throwing, he’s doing his best not to dwell on the conversation he had with Dumbledore a fortnight ago. The conversation that solidified everything he’s known and everything he’s guessed and has left him with another moniker on top of The Boy Who Lived. 

But, and all of these things are making him sound a lot busier than he really is, he’s also considering the fact that George Weasley has been owling him every few days, keeping him updated with everything from the shop to the Order, using coded lewd comments that have Harry rolling his eyes and blushing more often than not. George who spent a portion  of last year snogging Harry in broom cupboards and behind greenhouses and who had been a solid, stable, comforting sight when Harry had stumbled off the Hogwarts Express in a haze of grief, guilt, and a new weight on his shoulders. 

Aside from his thing for Cho Chang that petered out not long after it started, Harry’s never had Someone. Aside from Cho he’s never been interested. Ron and Hermione are the people he tells everything to, they’re the most important people to him, and now he thinks he has George which is a great, somewhat scary, bonus, that he’s not entirely sure what to do with. 

For one thing, he’s Ron’s brother, and he really has no idea at all how that would go down. He and George have had a couple of half-arsed conversations about it but it’s really hard to concentrate on things like that when shirt buttons are being undone and you have limited time before everyone comes back from Quidditch practice and finds you behind the broom sheds. When Harry puts any further thought into it makes him squirm. And that’s without even going near Hermione and her polite shock before she segues into her recitation of the textbook, thank you for telling us, Harry. 

And for another, well, there’s no avoiding that George is a boy. Harry doesn’t want to imagine the headlines Rita Skeeter would come up with if she could. His bisexuality is something he’s come to terms with, yes, but it’s one thing accepting yourself and it’s another when you’re one of the most famous faces in Britain and everyone loves a chance to have a go. 

Harry’s stopped from having any further thoughts in that direction by the knocking at the door signalling Dumbledore’s arrival and then it’s greeting house elves, meeting new professors, and any thoughts about this whole George thing are thrown out of his mind until he ends up in Fred and George’s old room and he falls asleep.

  
  


.

  
  


He wakes up to a worried Ron and Hermione who accept his fate of neither can live while the other survives as accurately as he expected them to and, following a sudden appearance of Fleur, they troop downstairs and receives their O.W.L results, an event which is almost anticlimactic in amongst everything else. 

“I’m sorry, Hermione, I just can’t get rid of it,” Mrs Weasley says, frowning at the bruise covering Hermione’s eye, trying again now that Hermione has calmed down from her results. “Some of their jokes are funny, I will admit, but this?”

Ron disagrees. “Give it to the right person and it’s hilarious.” 

“Fred and George are doing very well for themselves, Harry,” Mrs Weasley says, pride clear on her face despite her previous comment.

“Yeah, George was saying they’ve been even busier since the holidays started,” and now they’re all looking at him and oh, yeah,  _ Ron _ is the Weasley Harry is best friends with. 

“How’d you know that?” 

Which kickstarts that part of Harry’s brain that makes him feel immeasurably guilty every time he has to cover up this with a white lie. “George and Fred like to keep me up to date with what’s happening,” he shrugs. “You know, after giving them the Galleons,” and that’s enough for them to accept, although they keep looking at him suspiciously until Fleur comes back into the kitchen and Harry is thankful for the distraction.

  
  


.

  
  


They walk down the eerily quiet Diagon Alley, everyone clutching their cloaks, their bags, until Ron starts laughing, a sound almost too loud, and Harry looks up and sees what’s so funny, snorting at the brightness of Weasley Wizard Wheezes, the building straining to hold its crowds.

Once they’re in it’s a who’s who of Hogwarts, everyone waving at each other, shouting hellos over multicoloured stalls with products piled high enough to make Harry crane his neck to see everything.

“Managed to find us then, did you?” Fred appears beside them, looking strangely smart in uniform robes and an official name badge, miles away from the kids who sent home a toilet seat. 

“Took us a while,” Ginny says. “It really blends in, doesn’t it?” 

And then there’s George. He winks at Harry, laughs when his mum starts on at the signs on the window and the dangers they’re putting themselves in, and Harry finds himself shoving his hands in his pockets and smiling, ignoring the part of his brain that tells him he’s got more important things to be thinking about than the smattering of freckles across George’s nose and the way he’s pushed his sleeves up. More important as in the way Hermione is looking at him, looking at his dark cheeks, and probably adding everything together in that infuriating way she does. 

George leans across Ginny and says, “C’mere, Harry, I’ve got something in the back to show you,” which is so transparent Fred rolls his eyes at them but Harry grins and follows George up a series of narrow steps and behind a curtain, the space small enough to make them stand very close together, both grinning with a nervous excitement that has Harry feeling giddy. 

“What do you think of the shop then?” George asks, quiet, his mouth inches from Harry’s. 

“Very nice,” Harry murmurs. “Really like all the --” and he waves his hand vaguely and then he’s wrapping his hand in George’s robes and kissing him and, yes, this is exactly how he remembered it, and yes, this is exactly what he wants and what he needs right now.

George walks him the half inch back against the wall, rattling the boxes of snackboxes piled high behind them. He curls a hand at Harry’s back, the other in his hair, and around him the world slows down so all Harry can focus on is the way George’s chest is moving with his own, and his mouth on Harry’s, and the huff of laughter that breaks between them when Harry groans and wriggles closer.  

There’s so much out there that demands Harry’s attention, that demands his body and his power and his life, but right now all George needs from him is to keep kissing him, to move his hands to the places he’s come to know well, and to breathe, and for now, Harry is happy to give and give. 

“I can’t believe you did this,” Harry says when he’s managed to pull himself away, dropping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. There’s a fluttering in his stomach that isn’t unpleasant and there’s something great about listening to George’s ragged breathing and turning a Weasley twin speechless.

“Snogged you? I know, I’m lowering my standards,” George agrees, laughing at the weak punch Harry aims at his side. 

Harry opens his eyes. “I’m proud of you, George,” which is something he’s never really had the chance to say to anyone before. 

It’s worth it to see the smile George gives him, soft, humble, cheeks matching his hair. “Couldn’t have done it without you,” and maybe you could view that as sentimental but it’s also a very true fact.

“You would’ve found a way eventually. I know Fred’s the brains of the operation --” 

“Oi.”

“ -- but you’re good at the laughing and that’s what we need.” 

“Have I ever told you how wise you are?” 

“You’ve never said one nice thing to me in my life,” Harry replies, laughing at the fondness that’s seeping out of George’s face, and Merlin, can he stay here? In this tiny room that smells of strawberries and fire? He tilts his head, opens his mouth to George, and pretends for a few minutes more. 

  
  


.

  
  


“Did Harry see everything you wanted to show him?” Fred asks politely when they’ve regrouped with the rest of the Weasleys. 

George smiles back benignly. “He did, and he was very impressed with everything he saw.” 

“How come Harry gets a secret tour?” Ron whines, his hands full of products. “I’m only your brother!” 

“And that’s exactly why, Ron,” George replies. “Come over here and I’ll ring all that up for you.” 

Ron’s protests are drowned out by Hermione turning to Harry with a very knowing look on her face that Harry doesn’t think he likes. 

He turns his head and, oh, look, it’s Malfoy doing something suspicious. 

  
  


.

  
  


(Hermione continues to watch, which is difficult when Fred and George stop by the Burrow for dinner almost every night for the rest of the summer. Harry pretends not to notice at the bitten back laugh from her when George elbows Ron out of the way to sit beside Harry and then he turns his head to hide his blush when George gets handsy under the table. 

She watches when Harry pulls George to the side qafter dinner one night, tilts his head to whisper into his ear, the two of them sniggering in the shape of a secret. She watches when George’s hand rests on Harry’s shoulder, how he leans in, familiar, easy. She watches when they all play Quidditch the night before Harry’s birthday, everyone shouting and arguing as the Quaffle is thrown, and if you look over there, oh, look, it’s Harry and George, talking and laughing about something, oblivious to the carnage in front of them.

But although Harry notices her noticing, she doesn’t say anything. She lets him have this secret, this thing that is making him smile more than she’s seen him. He needs this.) 

  
  


.

  
  


They talk about Quidditch and they talk about Ron and Hermione and about Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. They skirt around Sirius at first, careful careful, but George has never been one for holding back, as reserved as he may be compared to Fred, and Harry finds that he feels marginally better, lighter, after he’s talked through the Ministry with someone who wasn’t there. He tells George about the things Sirius promised him, about the huge parts of his past that have a place in their future, and he tells him all the stories he knows about the marauders. He loves Ron and Hermione, they’ll go through everything with him, but it’s good to talk with someone who isn’t as close to everything, who doesn’t know the magnitude of Harry’s existence. It puts things in perspective, hearing George complain about Fred and Angelina taking up too much room in the flat and how the Kestrals are doing better than anyone ever gives them credit. 

 

.

 

“I like what you’re doing with the Shield Hats,” Harry tells George at the end of a late night Quidditch match, Ginny and Ron bickering in the background beside Hermione with her head in a book. No one’s looking at Harry and George. 

“I’m not just a pretty face,” George agrees, tipping a wink that has Harry putting him in a half-hearted headlock, pulling them both to the ground. Still Ron and Ginny argue over that last goal and still no one looks. “But I wasn’t exaggerating about the Ministry being interested in them.”

“Scrimgeour?” 

“Yeah, I know he’s a wanker, don’t glower at me,” and Harry wasn’t  _ glowering _ . He hasn’t even met Rufus Scrimgeour yet. But so far he hasn’t agreed with a word he’s read, which excuses the glowering/light glaring. “But there’s a few people in the Ministry that aren’t wankers so --”

Harry sighs. “You’re right.” 

And now George stills, his arm pressed against Harry’s, his leg thrown over Harry’s knee. “While we’re off making Shield capes and purses, are you ever going to tell me what you’re doing?” 

“Is this you accusing me of not pulling my weight in this war?” Harry says lightly. He avoids the way George is looking at him, glances over at Hermione who’s looking right back, so he turns back to the conversation he’s been dreading. “Please don’t ask me about this, George.” 

Because everyone says how funny Fred and George are, how up for a laugh and a joke they are, but Harry’s seen the other side of them, with their mum, with Percy, with Umbridge, and from the set of George’s jaw, his heart sinks to join them. 

“Don’t throw a fit,” he snaps, the good night brought by sunset Quidditch and the heavy weight of George as they sit in the grass under oblivious siblings disappearing in a click. “You knew I couldn’t tell you anything and that hasn’t changed.” 

“Nice to see you trust me,” George replies, head turned carefully to the side. 

“Come on. You know it’s not about trust. It’s about Dumbledore --”

“The same Dumbledore you wouldn’t shut up about ignoring you all last year,” which is when Harry gets to his feet, walking over to the other three.

“What’s up with you?” Ron frowns, looking between Harry and George. 

“Nothing,” they both mutter which isn’t suspicious at all but Mrs Weasley appears at the kitchen door to call them back inside, a curfew enforced with the terror drifting beyond the Burrow’s wards.

  
  


.

  
  


“You two have been over a lot this summer,” Ginny says a couple of days later, narrowing her eyes at the twins. 

“Cheers, Gin,” Fred replies. 

“The shop must not be busy,” Harry comments, shoves three pieces of bacon in his mouth when George makes eye contact. He chokes a bit on the bacon but shovels in a mouthful of eggs alongside it. 

“Are you okay, Harry?” George grins, raising an eyebrow at the messy grin he gets in return. 

“M’fine,” he says through the egg, earning a snort of disgust from Hermione. But George is still smiling and nothing feels as terrible as it did five minutes ago. 

  
  


.

  
  


They make their apologies when they pass each other in the hall, a brush of a hand on a shoulder. “You know I wish I could tell you,” Harry says, voice low, in case a Weasley jumps out from one of the many doors on one of the many floors. “But I promised. And I;m sorry.” 

“I know what I am to you, Harry,” George says. “I know you need an escape,” and Harry opens his mouth to say that there’s more, but George continues, “and I’m happy with that, but I worry about you, okay?” 

Which is when Mrs Weasley appears on the landing and Harry says, “You should worry about the Cannons ending anywhere higher than bottom of the league,” and maybe that’s code for thanks, i worry about you too, idiot. 

“Is all you two talk about Quidditch?” Mrs Weasley says on her way past and Harry loves her, he does, but when George pulls him into the bathroom and kisses him, he laughs at everything she doesn’t know.

  
  


.

  
  
  


It all blows up on Harry’s birthday. Well, blows up, is definitely too dramatic a phrase. 

What happens is this: Mrs Weasley throws Harry a party, ignoring any assurances that he doesn’t need any fuss. Tonks and Lupin and Moody and Hagrid come round for dinner, along with every Weasley bar Charlie and Percy. Everyone’s chatting, laughing, having a good time, while occasionally breaking in to more sombre tones to discuss the ongoing war because everything can’t grind to a halt just because it’s their chosen one’s sixteenth birthday. 

This is what happens at this fairly normal event: The party is mostly over, everyone milling around, speaking in low voices about their plans for after everyone goes back Hogwarts, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione head for the stairs. 

But George reaches out, grabs Harry’s shoulder, and says, with a lot of eyebrows that has Fred and Hermione raising their own, “Come on, Harry. I’ve got something to show you really quickly.” 

And Harry goes willingly, cake in his stomach and a mile wide grin on his face when he steps past Ron, ignoring the all too telling comment from him saying that, “George always has something to show Harry recently. Why’s he not showing me?” 

And, of course, they get cocky, with summer and war hanging over their heads and the tiny buzz of Firewhiskey that Fred smuggled in past his mother. There’s no charm, no lock on the door, when Harry falls back against the wall of Fred and George’s old room, looping an arm around George’s neck, and kissing him. They make sniggered comments about presents and unwrapping and Harry tilts his head back as George kisses down his neck, mumbling about birthday boys and those too famous for their own good and Harry’s just laughed, has just pulled George into another kiss, always so desperate for this now, always so needy for the feel of their mouths together, for George’s hands.

And that’s when the door bursts open, with Ron still going on about seeing whatever it is that’s so special that George had to take Harry away and --

Harry never watched a lot of TV growing up at the Dursleys but over the years he’s caught enough glimpses to know that this what it goes like in comedies when something huge has just been exposed. Everyone freezes -- Harry with a hand in George’s hair; George with his hips pressed so tightly against Harry’s you couldn’t even fit a wand between them; Hermione with that all too knowing smirk; Ron with an open mouth, and Fred, Fred whose known the whole time and is smug about it. 

So everyone freezes and then all of a sudden everyone starts talking. 

“Why?” Ron demands.

Which leads Hermione to say. “Ron!”

And Fred to say, “That’s what I’ve been asking myself all year.”

“All year?” Ron demands.

And, again. “Ron!” 

“Wouldn’t it be funny if I said this isn’t what it looks like?” George says, and yes, it would be funny, and Harry almost smiles, but his cheeks are hot and his stomach is in knots and he’s looking and looking at Ron because somehow it all comes down to his approval, even though Fred and Hermione -- oh, and Ginny -- are standing and smiling encouragingly.

It’s clear here that nothing more is going to happen until Harry says something so he clears his throat, places a hand on George’s chest to gently move him back a few inches, and then he says, “Well I never knew what to say,” which is a bit of a cop-out in terms of explanations but everyone always cuts him a bit of slack. He elaborates. “It just kind of happened. George is funny and he’s nice and, well, I fancy him a bit.” 

“How eloquent,” Fred praises, at which Harry smiles gratefully. 

And then Ron completely blind-sides everyone by saying, “I always knew you fancied a Weasley but I always thought it was Bill.”

  
  


. 

  
  
  


“He makes me laugh,” Harry says when he’s asked to expand on the why, and he feels that should be obvious, but all he gets are matching frowns. 

“We make you laugh,” Ron points out. 

Harry scrubs a hand through his hair, wonders how he imagined this conversation would go. “George, he -- he doesn’t know as much as you two, which I like. I like not having to constantly be thinking about everything that’s out there, everything that’s going wrong. George has always made me laugh, he’s always been nice to me, and, obviously that led to --”

“Yeah, okay, I can do without the details,” Ron says, but he’s grinning, a little with disbelief, mostly with happiness for Harry, because there’s never anyone more loyal than Ron, even when he’s just discovered his best friend has been snogging his brother for months.

“How long have known for, ‘Mione?” Harry asks, tilting his head back against the wall. 

Hermione winces. “You weren’t exactly subtle, Harry.” 

“Oh,” and then, “So why didn’t you say anything?”

“You would make up some unbelievable excuse, disappear for a while, and then come back smiling. With everything going on,” she waves a hand to encompass Umbridge, the Ministry, Cedric, “it was nice to see you smiling.”

“Cute, Hermione,” Ron says, but he’s grinning too, and for those few moments Harry can pretend this is the biggest thing in his life. 

  
  


.

  
  


Despite half the family knowing about their whole affair, Harry and George slip off to a secluded stretch of grass behind a big tree at the bottom of the garden. When Harry points out that it’s not very hidden, George mutters something about him and Fred telling ghost stories for years and now everyone’s a little wary to come close. 

“So,” George says, pulling away from a particularly long and very nice kiss. 

“So what?” Harry replies, leaning up to kiss George’s neck, a finger scooping the neck of his t-shirt open so he can reach a spot that he knows results in George making a noise that has Harry thinking of nothing else but for hours. 

“You’re young, there’s no need for labels, I could go on, but I was wondering what you’re thinking?” 

George has said from the beginning, when they grew past snogging and started talking about everything else, that he’s gay, that he’s known for ages now, but Harry has always needed a little more time to mull it over. 

“I’m bi,” Harry says, watches the words settle on George’s collarbone.

“Cool. Me too,” Ginny says from above, dropping down next to them. “Who do you think’ll be Captain next year?” she asks, stretching her legs out in front of her. They’re all so covered in freckles, the Weasleys.

Harry shrugs, moves on from his big admission that really isn’t so big and Ginny’s statement of her own. “I dunno. Katie’s oldest.”

“Seniority doesn’t mean anything,” George disagrees. He drops a hand onto Ginny’s knee, an acknowledgement of what she oh, so casually, said. “You’re the best player on the team.” 

“Do you think?” 

“Don’t be  _ coy _ , Harry,” George laughs. “You know I’m not just saying that. What I will say, though, is that you’re going to have a hard time finding replacements for me and Fred. These muscles aren’t found anywhere,” and he raises his arm, makes a fist so his bicep bulges modestly. 

Harry squeezes, rubs a thumb over the muscle. Maybe he forgets Ginny’s there when he goes to lean in again. 

“Merlin, Hermione was right,” Ginny sighs. 

“When is Hermione ever wrong?” George replies as Harry says, “What?” 

“You two aren’t subtle.” 

“Haven’t you heard, Gin? I’m the Chosen One. I’m anything but subtle,” Harry winks, covers up any truths with those big rumours, and then he groans when Ginny punches his arm. 

“No but really, if you were Captain who are you thinking?” 

“I’ve played with pretty much the exact same people since first year,” Harry points out. “Last year doesn’t count --” he tells George who opens his mouth to argue. “I don’t know what anyone else is like.” 

“Sounds like you need a Vice Captain,” Ginny says slyly. 

“Sounds like someone’s getting way ahead of themselves,” Harry smirks, knowing full well that Ginny already has a place on the team. “George, why don’t you come back for another year -- you and Fred can play Beater?” 

And George sighs, long and put-upon. “I know you’ll be going mad missing me, Harry -- don’t laugh, Ginny. Harry’s broken heart isn’t funny --  But the public needs my skills. They need my brains.” 

“I can’t wait to get away from you and your giant ego --” 

“Oh, I have a giant ego? Mr Boy Who Lived? Mr Quidditch Captain?”

“You’re going to jinx it!” Harry says, his stomach hurting from laughing. 

“You two are boring when you’re disgusting,” Ginny announces, smile clear on her face when she gets to her feet. 

“Merlin, Harry, I thought she’d never leave, didn’t you?” George stage whispers when Ginny has taken one step. 

“I can hear you,” Ginny replies, laughing. “If you’re not nice to me I’ll tell Mum about you and you’ll be smothered with her hugs and never see another Quaffle.” 

“The thing about Ginny,” George tells Harry conspiratorially, “is that she talks big and -- and she always delivers,” he finishes, glancing up at the warning he’s getting. 

It’s moments like these when Harry wishes so desperately it hurts that he had a big family growing up. He has his best friends and he has the Weasleys but there’s nothing like siblings to bond with, to fight with, to laugh and to protect, from the moment you’re born. 

He drops so he’s flat on the grass, melancholy and quiet with it. 

George hovers above him, forehead creased into a frown. “I will miss you, you know. Fred’s dreading it -- already knows I won’t shut up about you. You’ve turned me into a right sap.” 

Harry cards his hand through George’s hair, pulls him into a kiss, and tries not to think about that sadness that’s filling him up inside at going back to Hogwarts, which is ridiculous, it’s his home, but this is teenage love for you.

  
  


.

  
  


The rest of the summer flies past too quickly. Harry opens his Hogwarts letter and a badge falls into his hand; Mrs Weasley gets emotional the night before they leave for the train, hugging them close, telling them to be careful, don’t be stupid; Ron, Harry, and Hermione stay up too late talking and talking about everything that has happened, from Sirius to the prophecy to Dumbledore to new subjects, and they fall into bed, anxious and excited for the year ahead. 

  
  


.

  
  


“Fred? George? What are you doing here?” Mr Weasley asks when they arrive at Platform 9 and 3 Quarters and are greeted by the twins. 

“This is our quietest day of the year,” Fred explains. He reaches out and catches a bunch of third years who look at him, insolence painted across their faces. “Remember we do mail orders, okay? You look like you like Dungbombs -- wait till you see what we’re developing, it’ll blow your mind.” The third years slouch away, heads bent together as they plan their planks for the year, pooling their money as they climb aboard the train. 

“Mum, I need your help with something,” Ron says, apropos of nothing, and, when everyone looks confused, he looks meaningfully at Harry who takes the hint and drags George away by the hand. 

“You need to be quick, everyone’s going to notice I’m gone,” and isn’t this deja vu from the end of term? 

“ _ I _ need to be quick?” George says but he takes it in his stride, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist, pulling him close to give him a kiss that leaves him somewhat weak at the knees. If only they could see their chosen one now, driven to gibberish by a Weasley twin and the promise of Hogsmeade meetups. “Write to me, Harry, okay? I mean it. Anything.”

Without Sirius and with Lupin keeping a low profile, Harry was expecting no mail, a prospect that made him oddly lonely, so he grabs on to this, threatens to make full use of it. “And you write to me. I want to know what’s happening -- with the Order but also with you.”

“I can’t wait to tell everyone that Harry Potter is interested in what little old me is up to,” George simpers, closing his eyes. 

“Did you forget I’m the golden boy again? I can say whatever I want and everyone will believe me this time.”

“I’ll never believe you,” George says, for the sake of it, which is a complete lie, because --

“You’ve always believed me,” which is one of those statements that can never be truer, can never be more than its simple fact. “From the very beginning.” 

“And I always will.”

Their final kiss is robbed by Mrs Weasley who pops up around a pack of fifth years, eyes wild. “What are you two doing? The train’s about to leave.” 

Fred and George wave enthusiastically from the platform as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny climb aboard. 

The door slams shut, steam billowing everywhere, and George throws out huge kisses, smacking his hand to his mouth and chucking them towards the train. Harry doesn’t pretend to reach out and catch them, there’s still a lot of secrecy around this, but he tips his head back and laughs and laughs and in that moment he’s so happy, he’s so in  _ love _ , that it feels like the only thing in the world.

There's a war out there, he's not naive, but it's important to have balance and shrugging off the smug looks from the other three as he turns away from the window feels just about right in terms of normality. He moves down the train, ignoring the whispers and looks, and focuses on those last few weeks, on his friends beside him, and he knows that he has more than enough to fight for. 

 


End file.
